The Return - Chronicles of Riddick
by As You Wish My Sun and Stars
Summary: To be the ruler of those who hate you is a precarious position. To hate them even more is a joke of fate. Failing to repay his greatest debt, Riddick is left only with the desire to seek his revenge upon the Necromonger horde. But in his attempt to destroy an army of the half-dead, he finds the pathway home. Note: begins just after The Chronicles of Riddick
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything connected to _Pitch Black, Dark Fury,_ or** _ **The Chronicles of Riddick. Nor am I making any money off of this.**_

 _It's purely for my own sick satisfaction ;)_

* * *

 _The blackness filtered through her mind like ink droplets in water. She could feel the torture there, the rising pain at the edge of the darkness. It neared her the way it always did, sharpening itself on the limits of her soul, tasting her spirit. This was the moment of crisis, the instant she could extend into either plane of darkness or light._

 _Closer… Shocks of pain shuddered through her as the shadow spread. Screams echoed in her mind without ears to hear them. Men, women, children— death. Always death._

 _But another voice emerged. Breaking through the dimness, it called her. The light brightened, then scattered across the infiltrating blackness. She followed the sound into the intensity._

* * *

"The Lord Marshal MUST understand," Riddick's eyes flickered onto the pale, emaciated Necromonger speaking with venom on his dead tongue, "the horde cannot truly be led until the commander makes pilgrimage. The breeder hasn't even asked to receive our marks!"

Sitting crookedly in stone thrones, the three robed priests convened their private meeting, humming with displeasure. Guards stood on the outside of the grotesquely decorated hall, their faces blending with the lifeless ones carved into the metal doors. The eyes of the dead, both statuette and real, never managed to reach the height of the shadowed ceiling. It had taken Riddick less than a day to perfect the skill of moving throughout their rooms and ships unnoticed. Disguise combined with the extravagant but poorly lit architecture provided a number of ways to hide, while the massive channels supplying air to the city sized crafts also gave him nonrestrictive access. He explored and searched through most of the armada during his month as Lord Marshal. As long as he made daily appearances with the council and isolated himself in his quarters within their cathedral _Necropolis_ , the Necromongers continued to believe he was secluded on the flag ship, _Basilica_.

"This is indeed a difficult situation," face scarred by a fire from his past life, this zealot was more reflective. "We have never had an outsider leading before." As he spoke, the priest drew his hands from his lap onto the arms of his chair. Even from the darkened corner where he perched, goggles on, Riddick eyed the disfiguring burns that melded the once-man's fingers useless.

 _Interesting_. The Necromongers were mechanical soldiers. Choosing carefully which survivors of planetary destruction to accept into the fold, they made sure their male converts would be useful in war. The priest didn't fit the pattern. Riddick's eyes narrowed. _This one was selected for his mind._

"We have never had anyone but a chosen heir as Lord Marshal. The effects could be catastrophic to our purpose. He's already led the armada out of the Inhabitable Zone. We're weeks from any main planet!" The final priest lowered his hood, revealing completely black eyes against his once warm brown skin. Scaly and dull, the pigment now appeared a murky gray. He pulled a goblet engraved with writhing souls to his lips and drank deeply. A shudder went through him with each swallow. Lowering the cup, his dry tongue licked the last drop of blackness from the corner of his mouth.

This was the priest who had been summoned immediately after Riddick ended the last Lord Marshal. Purifier Rurik had pressed the late leader's cold forehead with three fingers dipped in Necromonger oil before asking Riddick to join him by the fully dead corpse. He pulled himself from the twisted metal throne still reeling from what just happened. In a daze, Riddick slowly stepped forward as the gathered Necromongers again knelt down before him. "You must touch foreheads with your kill," he heard the priest say. Bending, Riddick was distantly aware of words being spoken over him. When he arose, three greasy spots on his brow, Rurik announced him to the horde as the Seventh Anointed Lord Marshal. Traces of the reeking substance still glistened against his skin despite his attempts to remove it. The lingering smell of the liquid assaulted his senses whenever he tried to sleep, a reminder of the death that constantly surrounded him. An amplification of the typical Necromonger scent, light on most of their breaths, it was the sweet and sickeningly sour smell of rotting flesh. Seeing it in pools of dispensation on every corner of each ship, Riddick knew it was the same liquid which the priest drank now. It was the only thing he ever saw any of the Necromongers consume.

"You keep what you kill," the scarred one reminded softly, more to himself than to the other two. The priest stared into emptiness, distracted by his own thoughts.

"We are the Purifiers, the religious head of the Necromonger body!" The shrunken disciple finally spat out what he was working towards, "Why do we not just override this happening?"

"And violate our most principle of edicts?" Rurik's dark eyes glowed resentfully at his subordinate's ill-considered suggestion, "You would have Underverse barred to us all, _Purifier_ Ladon? No, we must stand by our laws or we are no better than the chaos of humanity."

"You KEEP what you KILL," the pensive believer again repeated, this time with a forceful certainty directed at his cohorts.

"Yes, we know Ciro!" the apparent leader responded with annoyance in his voice before taking another long gulp of the thick black elixir.

"No," the burned visage turned slowly to face the derision, a sharp spark of malice glinting in his dead eyes, "you don't."

The scarred smile erupting from the priest's face reminded Riddick of the lethal jaws he'd seen tear through Carolyn Fry. Even a long decade of running and killing couldn't wash that image from his psyche. Carolyn had risked herself rather than abandon an old man and kid, but she'd died rescuing a murderer she owed nothing to, an animal who felt at ease leaving them all to die. _The whole thing changed after that…_

A fresh memory broke the surface of Riddick's mind before he could suppress it. In an instant, the raw image was pushed back again into the deep void he'd caged it. But her name, the name Riddick couldn't say ricocheted through him. The dark mask he wore of indifference broke as his throat tightened. It had taken over thirty years, but _she_ finally proved he cared about more than his own survival. _What would Carolyn and the Imam say to that?_

 _None of it matters_. The coldness returned to his features. _I failed them all._

"There is no need to dishonor the One Rule," Purifier Ciro's voice wound with arrogant satisfaction through the ominous hall like smoke. "We only need to further it."

"Direct participation in the succession?" Riddick could hear measured consideration in the oldest voice.

Ciro's eyes again stared into oblivion as he began to lengthen his calculations. "Encouragement, really," he offhandedly replied.

"Who do we choose?" Purifier Ladon on the other hand had no qualms about interfering. Eager, he leaned his diminutive frame forward until prepared to bound onto his feet and begin the hunt for the profane leader. Riddick knew who Rurik was considering for Lord Marshal, but it would be interesting to see if the aged Purifier would be able to convince this fanatic. _Maybe he won't have to?_

Like a fly on the wall, Riddick had seen and heard many intriguing things wandering the Necromonger ships. Their culture had some likeness to various human interpretations, but their take on infidelity was something unique throughout the verse. Riddick had watched a strong allegiance develop between Purifier Rurik and Lord Vaako in the course of the universe's oldest profession. It was the first incidence Riddick had ever witnessed of spousal pimping, but the striking Dame Vaako had vigorously done her part to develop her husband's political strength. With men outnumbering women on each ship ten to one, Riddick had to assume that sharing was a part of the Necromonger existence. Purifier Ladon might already be on the Vaakos' visiting list. _Ciro too perhaps?_ He smirked, appreciative not to have observed that particular performance.

"In the name of Underverse, Ladon, use your head! There is more to this than just choosing a Necromonger to destroy him. A BREEDER killed a pilgrimaged Lord Marshal!" Rurik's head tipped back in exasperation, the dull skin at his throat shaking as he lectured, "Without a true Lord Marshal's voice to lead them, the weaker Necromongers have begun to claim it is a sign that we Purifiers have gone astray. We can't raise OUR hands against him outright without consequence. So how do we abide by the laws of Underverse and still end his blasphemous reign?"

"There are a number of choices," Ciro continued, unperturbed by his superior's inability to be resourceful. "He could have an accident… A large group of soldiers could corner the breeder and relieve him of his breath. Obviously they would all be disposed of before suspicions of our involvement could be confirmed. Or perhaps the human food he ingests might simply disagree with him. Breeders die all the time without obvious cause."

"In either case we'll have groups of Necromongers against each other for the throne. It could lead to a fracturing. We are destined to spread and correct the bedlam of humanity, not destroy our own brothers and sisters," Ladon spoke up again, this time putting his religious defecation to useful employment. "No, only one Necromonger should terminate him. It must be observed by the horde and accepted. We need only to ensure that our choice is capable of killing this powerful breeder."

"The Lord Marshal couldn't even destroy him with the powers he gained from Underverse," Purifier Ciro paused, considering this deeply. "Are we sure that this _Riddick_ will not accept the Necromonger faith? To kill rather than convert an individual of such magnificent power…" A rasp of a sigh escaped his burned lips as he spoke to space rather than his silent companions, "He would be the Lord Marshal to lead the horde across this verse and into the next. With the powers he would gain, the Necromonger forces would become unstoppable. Perhaps absolute power _could_ persuade him?"

"The breeder was quite clear about his feelings on the matter." It was Rurik's time to smirk, "I believe he said, 'They've been trying to ghost me for thirty years, Necromancer. Death don't like me. The feeling's mutual.'"

Riddick's guts tightened, but he remained motionless as the statue in whose shadow he crouched. They hadn't tried to force him into the conversion chamber, but Rurik and the other council members had implied his eventual destination there. The "unnecessaries" of humanity, or so he had been told, were removed from converts before the trial by pain. If they were strong enough to survive the physical ordeal, aided of course by the ever-present black sap, the voice of the horde would claim them and begin to expunge the remnants of human impurity from their minds. It didn't take converts long to forget the entirety of who they had been― _with some exceptions_.

Her name seared the back of his throat again, but Riddick swallowed it down. Somehow, she'd managed to fight what the Necros planted inside of her long enough to save his life. Riddick would be damned to all the hells of Underverse if he'd ever give up the memory of her or the un-payable debt he owed her.

 _Bastards_. His fingers clenched around the Necromonger blade he'd pulled out of Imam's murderer. _I don't keep. I kill_. His fingers loosened gradually as reason overpowered the suddenly intense craving to slit their throats. _Three full-dead today, three more half-dead tomorrow…_ The element of numbers was at their disposal, and killing these religious zealots would only make plans for his escape more difficult.

Ignorant of the menacing presence above them, the Necromonger priests calmly considered their options. Purifier Ciro made another semblance of a sigh. He was disappointed, but resigned. "Then we choose the next Lord Marshal and send him to Underverse before confronting his predecessor. The younger the Necromonger is, the stronger his powers will become." Rurik made to speak, but Ciro continued, "This is not without precedent. Lord Marshal Oltovm made pilgrimage minutes before the torch was passed. We can send our choice to the Threshold in secret and wait for his return without disturbing the breeder. It will be some months, but no harm will come from the wait. I only hope that we can choose one among us who is strong enough to defeat him."

"He can refresh the Spring before he goes against the breeder. That will give him a short-term power surge at least," Ladon turned his eyes towards the now seemingly acquiescent head Purifier, "When was the last Seasoning?"

Rurik swirled his cup lightly, staring into the darkness it held for answers, "The Spring was renewed the same day that Purifier Odell was released to Underverse and Purifier Burrlaid was appointed by Lord Marshal Zhylaw." Abruptly the priest stilled his hand and snapped his head up towards his fellow conspirators, "The last Seasoning was thirty-two standard years ago, just after the Furian invasion."

"Shall we take it as a good omen then?" Ciro's distorted hands twitched on top of their stone rests. "The mark of a new era without that particular inferiority to hinder our spread… Yes. Perhaps Underverse is closer for us than we know. Now," the scarred one settled back into his chair, more at peace than before, "which of the council shall it be?"

"Well―," Ladon's face brightened into a semblance of pleasure before he was unduly cut off by his superior.

"They are almost all too old to ensure an energy level sufficient to dispose of our 'glitch.' Baric is older than the last Lord Marshal. Lyles was converted in the same year and both Travis and Gorth can barely be called superior soldiers." Rurik's eyes began to glimmer craftily, but Riddick could see the primed looks emoting from his partners. Even a thousand ships, it seemed, could not hide the clandestine arrangements of political maneuvering. "There is only one suitable choice for the next Lord Marshal."

"It will have to be Lord Vaako."

"I agree."

The hair on the back of Riddick's neck began to rise but he made no attempt to suppress the instinct. The devoted Dame Vaako had done her job well. _Lucky man_ , Riddick thought sardonically as the repulsive image of "beauty" and her four beasts assaulted his temporal lobe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything connected to _Pitch Black, Dark Fury,_ or** _ **The Chronicles of Riddick. Nor am I making any money off of this.**_

* * *

 _Click._

The arming signal echoed against the walls of the metal channel, gradually fading into the empty drop below and above. A harsh crimson display flickered warning digits, polluting the surrounding darkness. With a quick flick of the wrist, Riddick registered its output signal to the subtle detonator he wore there. The grenade's timing mechanism quietly died away until his shined eyes could perform in their natural environment.

 _Five more._ Pulling himself upwards, Riddick made for the next destination on his mental list.

The tunnel systems across all the ships were identical to the _Basilica_ , except for in dimension. By comparison to some of the larger vessels, the flag ship's infrastructure was minuscule. For Riddick's purposes, however, it was the perfect size. While he had been able to use the over-sized air shafts to travel, the greater size of the ducts caused harsh currents of air. More than once they'd forced him flat against the wire bundles and tubing he was using to maneuver. A thermal grenade propelled from his hand would only obstruct his purpose. Disintegration was not something included in his escape plan. If by chance the blast didn't kill him, one lost grenade would at the very least betray his intentions and expedite the Purifiers' plot to replace him.

In this case, smaller was better. The _Basilica's_ size made it an un-problematic target for an exit distraction, but there was more than just convenience tied up in Riddick's choice. Despite the ship's diminutive stature, its destruction would leave the greatest impact on the Necromonger horde and his core. The flag ship was not only home to the Lord Marshal and his advisers; it held the most sacred of all Necromonger shrines.

To Riddick the Necropolis was nothing but a malformed tomb, another poorly decorated prison cell to be detained in, this time under the guise of a leader. To the Necromongers, it was a cathedral of death and suffering, a monument that had been among them since the dawn of their perverse faith. Obliterating _it_ along with the crown of Necromonger hierarchy was the only thought satiating the animal hunger Riddick felt inside. Eating at him day and night, it craved a blood-filled revenge. Riddick would watch their searing damnation with ruthless pleasure.

 _Four._

He synchronized the next makeshift bomb and drew himself above its nestled position. The device lay dormant against a grouping of tubes that cut through the tunnel and into the opposite hallway. By their number alone, Riddick could tell the tank on the other side had to be sizable. _On this part of the ship…_ A mental blueprint was pulled to the front of his shined eyes, "The Council's private supply." Riddick's mouth turned up to expose a canine. It gleamed like a sharpened dagger in his cruel smile.

A hundred thermal grenades wouldn't normally have the quantity of energy needed to destroy a ship as large as the Basilica, at least not without the right catalyst. The beast inside snarled with anticipation. _And it runs through every corner of the ship._

Prepared for anything, Riddick had kept the bag of grenades from Tomb's craft when he'd landed again on New Mecca. After killing the Lord Marshal, he stowed them into a gap between the grotesque carvings in his new quarters. Demanding the armada move outside of the recognized planetary systems, he'd bided his time to decide how his relationship to the Necromongers would play out. Knowing now the end they had in store for him, Riddick decided to use the grenades to their full advantage. _I can't destroy their entire degenerate population. But I WILL hobble them._ It would take the Necromongers years to rebuild their leadership structure, and he would be a memory by the time they did. _The universe can fend for itself._

 _Three._

Again, set between intersecting tubes, the grenade marked only the first phase of a larger, more volatile detonation. On the other side of the thermal, and all the others planted throughout the ship, was a dispensation pool or holding tank for the noxious black liquid consumed by every Necromonger. But the slime had a much greater use than consumption. Unlike most systems' ships throughout the verse, the Necromongers' were not powered by solar converters. The armada had over a thousand city-ships and an almost uncountable number of smaller war crafts and vehicles. Compressed gravity engines burning with a piercing cerulean light, all of them were powered by the fetid Necromonger oil. A substance which, after testing it himself, Riddick found to be gratifyingly unstable.

The eager snarl reverberated through him as he launched himself upwards, hand over hand across the oil filled cylinders. One simple burst in combination with spark, and the Necromongers would have gotten rid of their own flag ship. It was almost too simple. _Just like Tombs… Arrogance is bliss, until it fucking kills you._

Unchallenged as they rained destruction across the verse, the Necromongers had no doubts about their abilities. Without fear or pain, the horde meant death to every planet confronted. But while Necro culture exuded aggression and offensive strategy, defense and general security were conceitedly obsolete. Riddick had made his way on board the Necropolis twice without being apprehended before he was made Lord Marshal. And even after his incursion ended with the death of their leader, the Necromongers still did not attempt to improve their guard against him or any other breeder. Riddick could travel undisclosed almost anywhere across the armada. But he didn't need to. The inner-workings and limitations of the horde were observable from the flag ship, and even from his own quarters.

The energy-giving oil was key to the Necromonger existence. An everyday necessity, the liquid ran like a pipeline of death through each ship, carrying with it the disregarded capability of explosion. Dispensation pools flowed openly, inviting Necromongers to imbibe from the ornately carved skulls of shrieking statues. The Purifiers and the Council made no attempt to hide the springs from him. His private rooms held their own elaborate fountain, a sanctuary to the previous six Lord Marshals. Set into a shrine of volcanic rock and silver, the putrid water glimmered forth eternally. Unlike the other springs, it did not erupt from the greasy orifices of a skull, but rippled behind the statue of the first Lord Marshal. Labeled "The Works of Covu the Transcended," the over-sized metal form stood unclothed as he stabbed a two-handed sword into the earth between his feet. The blackness burst forth from the impact point and ran down into the holding pool to mingle with the other dark waters like decaying blood. The ridiculous size of the spring had made the supply line leading into the ventilation shaft impossible to ignore.

 _Two._

The thermal's light faded into blackness as Riddick casually loosened his fingertips from the security of tubing and wire. Intuitively adjusting, Riddick's body leaned forward towards the target that his eyes locked onto across the void. Sharp bursts of air gouged at his leathered skin, pounding his mass back towards the wall. Assessing the resistance, Riddick focused on his mark over the plummeting divide. Vaulting across three meters of free fall, he sinuously pulled himself through a fractured panel along the opposite face. Perched within the main starboard access, Riddick took another step towards the end of his goal. He was going to finish this in the same space that Covu had inspired him.

 _He'll burn in his own black piss._

* * *

The anteroom to the fountain chamber was silent and dark as he entered. Everything seemed as he had left it, the scent of Necromonger death still lingered like a perverted musk in the stale air. Indifferent to the carved and molded grotesqueries around him, Riddick crossed the Lord Marshal's salon to find the only place he felt alone. The void of space pressed in against the floor to ceiling window ahead of him, releasing his mind from the Necromonger crypt.

Only the smallest amount of light entered through the observation wall in deep space. Riddick's silvery orbs were barely disturbed by the filtered lights from the occasional star or scattered nebula. Oftentimes he had to wear his goggles while piloting ships, but not here in the darkest part of the universe. Even the flitting cerulean lights from the armada around him were muted against the great darkness of the outer blackness. _God is in the darkness, Imam had said._ Riddick's jaw clenched. _Then I damn him to the fucking light, away from me._

"It is a beautiful sight to be this far into the old verse, don't you think Riddick?"

He was not alone. _Fresh air_. Too late, the unadulterated scent hit him. Like a beacon through the Necromonger filth surrounding him, Riddick was drawn in closer.

"Most hosts would ask their guests to sit and inquire what news they bring before they slit their throats," the familiar voice sang like a soft but confident chime.

"Most guests are invited," Riddick's shined eyes flickered sharply through the emptiness, "and don't use tricks to stay hidden, Elemental."

"Lights!"

An unforgiving brightness illuminated the whole of the surrounding chamber, momentarily blinding Riddick's un-goggled eyes. Pulling them down, the height of Necromonger extravagance came into focus. Vaulted ceilings carved with black soul-eating creatures lined the space wall to wall. Like giant bars they pushed in against them. Aereon stood across the twenty-meter expanse, white robes billowing in a nonexistent breeze. A finger lightly danced over the latest statue to grace the Lord Marshal's quarters. It stood silently among the overpowering imagery encasing them, just another dark figure of Necromonger pride. The multi-faced helmet was the only piece which seemed to stand apart. Zhylaw's self-designed crown stood shining an ethereal silver against the dull stone of his body. Slowly, her fingers came to wrest against its grim lips, set with tight confidence in his power. Abruptly, the Elemental twisted, her body becoming a cyclone of linen. Pulling the air around her into a controlled force, the metal symbol pulled away from the statue and soared across the chamber. With an echoing crunch, it crashed firmly against the ceiling, then fell harshly to the floor. Several cracked pieces of what had been a crown now laid lifelessly between the two of them, refuse to be cleaned from the floor.

 _Interesting_. Riddick raised an eyebrow as Aereon's form steadied. He made no move from where he stood, but kept his blade plainly visible. Elementals were supposedly neutral in the game of the universe, but it seemed when it came down to Necros and humans, they played favorites. "Feel better?" he asked without emotion.

"A small promise I made," she replied, her face an unreadable mask. "But I did not come to destroy vulgarity. I have another purpose."

"And what purpose of Dame Vaako's is that?" Riddick's fingers tightened around his blade.

"You calculate quite well, Furyan," Aereon smiled, but took no steps forward. "The house of Vaako has the most to gain from retaining my presence. I must say that they haven't kept me quite as comfortably as my last jailer, but one must factor in the need to hide my presence from you." Breaking eye contact she knelt, slowly reaching for a small piece of the crown. An eye from the many faces glimmered as the Elemental held it in her hand. Slowly, she closed her fist around the metal shard. After a moment, Aereon stood, gracefully tucking the piece into her gown. Riddick's nostrils flared as a drop of blood hit the floor between them.

"The unsuccessful Dame Vaako does not calculate quite so well as the two of us, it seems," she said, her sharp blue eyes landing back onto the statue of the late Lord Marshal before flickering to Riddick. A smile played at the corners of her mouth as she asked, "Perhaps you're wondering if they offered me my freedom if I killed you?"

The fingers grasping the knife flexed as Riddick thought about the price she and her Elemental friends had laid on his head. A scornful smile crossed his blunt lips, "Your freedom can be arranged any time, Elemental. I owe you that."

"Quite possibly you do, Lord Marshal," she said, all traces of mirth gone. "But if you'll permit me, I would like to atone for my sins before I die. Something I believe you can understand." Aereon turned away, gazing towards the darkness of the universe. After a few moments, she quietly spoke, "I would like to pay my debts."

 _'Where the hell can I get eyes like that?_ ' He could see her thin dirty face as the words echoed through him. A kid, just a kid. She saved his ass twice and where did he get her? Tortured, raped, slammed, and ghosted before she was thirty.

"Some debts can never be repaid," the words rumbled from his chest as he stared into the endless reaches of space.

The quiet continued for a while, a false peace that both knew would come to an abrupt end. Unsurprisingly, Riddick was not the first to speak.

"You know that they are going to kill you Riddick?" There was no false concern in her voice. She merely spoke in facts and observations.

"They'll try."

"Dame Vaako has sent me with an offer for you," she turned to face him, "an alternative to waiting for imminent attack."

The animal inside him laughed, "I'll have to take up a hobby."

She turned, still ten meters away, watching his profile. Riddick knew without looking at her that the Elemental was calculating what to say to him next. After a moment, she spoke, "You have lived a life of being chased, Riddick. A life of constant violence and aggression. Before I relate this deal to you, I must confess a transgression that I have made. A debt that I can never truly pay." Aereon paused, her eyes drifting downward. The smell of blood and fear mingled in Riddick's nose. Through the corner of his eye he watched the Elemental squeezing the metal shard, drops of blood staining the whiteness of her gown.

"Years ago, my planet was threatened by Necromongers. To save my people, I made a bargain with one of them. I calculated the steps he would take to become the most powerful Lord Marshal the horde had ever seen. And in exchange, Zhylaw agreed to leave my home untouched as long as he ruled."

"Congratulations," Riddick mocked, turning a deadpan expression toward her, "I don't come across a better killer very often."

Aeron shook her head, "You don't understand, Riddick. I helped empower a creature who killed or converted millions and slaughtered even more. I used my sight to foretell a future that unbalanced the universe and caused the deaths of entire races of people— _your_ people, Riddick."


End file.
